


hold back the stars

by northofkites



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Jealousy, Multi, Pining, Romance, Slow Build, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 10:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21427054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northofkites/pseuds/northofkites
Summary: Dimitri keeps the ring on a chain around his neck. His heart has long known who he wants, it’s only a matter of telling her.But war’s never easy, and peace is even messier—and in six long moons of rebuilding the kingdom, Dimitri hasn't seen Byleth.And then one day, in the golden embrace of an autumn, the Archbishop rides out to meet him with a question that changes both their fates.“Will you walk by my side, no matter what?”(a journey of dreams, myth, and oh-so-messy feelings)
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 19
Kudos: 109





	hold back the stars

A romantic long gone had nicknamed Lord Azriel’s castle the Great Hearth.

It’s a fitting name. Azriel’s noble line has long since faded into obscurity, but the Hearth still burns every autumn. Flames of maple and aspen smolder along the castle’s cliffs. Rooms full of deep rugs and deeper goblets of wine, groves heavy with plums, and grass lush with rich hunting make the Hearth a much-loved respite for the Kingdom’s nobility.

Dimitri has dreamed more than once of slipping his ring on Byleth’s finger in the golden beauty of the Hearth.

But his country, ravaged by war, has no patience for romance. Plagues advance and families starve whether their king is in love or without it. In the last six moons, Dimitri has secured grain from Almyra and rebuilt strongholds in the Alliance. He’s shaken hands with old enemies and new friends, paid contracts with gold and with blood. There's more to do than any one person can manage, and even with his friends and schoolmates working alongside him, his days are long and his nights often sleepless.

It has been six moons since he has seen Byleth, since she had smiled at Dimitri—_ that _ smile, just for him—as she placed the crown on his head.

As he looks out of the ivy-gripped tower window, the king touches the ring meant for her. It hangs on a silver chain around his neck, tucked into his tunic, along with her three-line letter: today’s date, House Azriel, and her signature. Today will be the first time he has seen Byleth since his coronation. Perhaps, today—

There is a dry, scuffling sound at his feet. 

He doesn't look down. Dimitri knows that if he looks down, it won’t be fall leaves brushing against his boots. He grips his shoulder, feeling the phantom pain of a hateful blade, and wills himself to breathe the way Mercedes has taught him: _de__ep inhale, deep exhale_, keep your sight fixed on the horizon.

Time heals all wounds, but she's idle on lessening the scars in his mind. He can't deep-breathe away the undead chorus in his head—the sounds and visions of skeletal warriors marching through the high hall, dry, desperate hands clinging to his furs, fingerbones orbited by rings scratching at his desk and in his dishes. It’s obscene and almost funny, except that Sylvain kicks him if he starts to chuckle at the unearthly percussion during high tables. 

But if he can't laugh, what can he do? There's no escaping, just surviving—_inhaling, exhaling. _

Byleth deserves better before he can even dream of asking her to spend her life with him, but he's determined to get there, to see her at the end of it.

Salvation is a narrow path, hemmed in by failure and regret. But right now, in the cool breeze of the Great Hearth, inhaling and exhaling, Dimitri lets a small hope kindle in his heart. And then she's here. From his window in the high tower, he spots the small caravan of horses wending up the path, and smaller yet, a figure cloaked in white with pale hair. She seems to raise her head in his direction, as though knowing exactly where he waits.

\---

Byleth is serene in chaos of the castle’s antechamber. Attendants, hers and his, rush by with muddy boots and sacks of feed for the horses. She has forgone the Archbishop’s traditional gown, opting for white riding pants, cuffed leather boots, and a halter that clasps her neck in ivory satin, covered by a steel bodice. A cape of creamy satin pours from her shoulders, and a golden dragon pin holds back her hair with fang and claw. The only thing ruining the illusion of celestial perfection are a few orange leaves stuck in her spring green hair.

It takes Dimitri a moment to find his tongue. 

“You’re looking well, Your Grace,” he manages, bowing deeply to hide his expression.

She bows back, all military formality.

“If I keep riding out on these missions, maybe I’ll outrun Seteth’s dress expectations,” Byleth deadpans. 

Dimitri holds back his laughter with the back of his hand, Byleth smiles, and that’s all that’s needed to bring them together. Ignoring the spluttering of her handmaid, Byleth strides forward and embraces him, burying her hands in his furs and her face against his chest. He puts his cheek to the top of her head and hugs her back, fiercely.

“How I’ve missed you,” he whispers.

“And I, you.”

Dimitri can practically see Seteth's scalding frown in his mind. He's sure that some watchful eye among Byleth’s attendants will hurry this news back to him. But it doesn’t matter. She is here in his arms, warm and real. 

“My lady…” begins her handmaid, wrinkles deepening with displeasure.

“Sorry, Saella,” Byleth says to the attendant, who shakes her head. The Archbishop steps back and clasps her hands in front of herself in a most un-Byleth-like manner.

“Your Majesty, I thank you for receiving my letter, and troubling yourself to give me audience," she says, her voice flat and serious again. 

Dimitri doesn’t hide his smile this time. "The honor is mine, Archbishop. Shall I find us a private location to discuss our affairs?"

_ "Please," _Byleth says, as Saella takes up a stout white gown from the hands of another attendant and eyes her superior. "Hurry."

\---

Seteth’s warning echoes in the back of Dimitri's mind as he leads Byleth down the garden paths.

The church’s second-highest official had come and gone weeks earlier, bringing an avalanche of decrees begging the king’s signature. The visit had been tense. Dimitri sensed that Seteth was grappling with him, fighting over something, but he couldn't figure out what the prize was or even why the war had started.

When Dimitri had cautiously asked about Byleth, Seteth obliged him in flat detail. The Archbishop was quashing demonic beasts to the east. The Archbishop was bringing supplies to an orphanage in the west. The Archbishop was holding council with Claude in the south. Byleth was everywhere but in the north.

_ “She trusts that you are doing all you can to keep the peace.” _

_ “Indeed,” he'd said, absentmindedly tracing the ring under his heavy tunic. _

_ Seteth’s sharp eyes took on an even sharper gleam. The older man had cleared his throat and slowly put down his quill. _

_ “You did not ask it of me, Your Majesty, but let me offer a former student a word of counsel.” _

_ His green eyes captured Dimitri’s over the council table they shared. “The Archbishop’s reformation of the church is her most urgent priority. In preparation for the coming year, her attention will be focused on matters of the church, and her duties will triple. She will have little time for worldly affairs. Banquets, noble squabbles.” _

_ He crossed his arms. _

_ “Proposals,” he finished. _

_ Dimitri could only stare. _

_ “These are my words, not hers,” Seteth continued. “Nevertheless, consider her and I in step towards the singular mission of unifying the Church of Seiros’ believers. This war has damaged not just the physical body of the church, but the spiritual body of the people. Let us hope that Byleth can repair them both, without... distraction.” _

_ With that, the older man lowered his head to work again as though he hadn't pierced right through Dimitri’s heart with his words. _

_ Distraction. _ The word is still a cold, heavy lump in his heart. He presses back memories of nights strangled by his doubts as the spirits in his dreams cackle their new favorite word at him. _ Monster. Abomination. Distraction. _

_ Doing your duty as king doesn’t mean you have to be unhappy, _Mercedes would say.

_ Monster. _

_ Seteth may have warned you, but it doesn't mean you need to obey_.

_ Abomination. _

_ If only you would hold out your hand to her, Your Majesty, I’m sure the professor take it. She would be proud of who you're becoming. _

_ Distraction._

And then, as suddenly as that hated word threatens to drown him, he feels the gentlest touch on his elbow.

He looks down and Byleth is there, and all the glorious colors of autumn swim in her pale eyes.

And Dimitri remembers that there are three other words that live in him, three light-filled words yet to be given. 

\---

There are few commoners living as groundskeepers in the castle, but finding a place to be truly alone with so many curious ears around has taken careful thought on Dimitri's part. Though it’s overrun with weeds, cold water still bubbles pleasantly from the cracked fountain spring in the center, and wild roses lend their shade and perfume to the enormous wooden supper table placed beside it.

Her smile says everything that words don't, and Dimitri’s heart leaps.

He can’t help but remember the earnest boy he was in youth, who would have taken her hand and led her to the glass, and named each gold and red beauty in Faerghus’ brilliant forests. But it takes all he has to pour her wine and try to stop his hand from trembling.

_ What’s wrong with telling her how you feel? _Mercedes’ sweet voice is still caught in his ears. He inhales, tamps down the rising anxiety in his chest, because if he doesn’t—

"Does your hand still trouble you?" Byleth asks.

Dimitri lets out his held breath with a sigh and manages to sit, trying on a smile for her. She is the same as she’s always been, gentle and attentive, and he wants to pay her back in kind.

“It remains numb, but I do not let it occupy my thoughts. I am… more occupied with my own joy. I am happy to see you.”

She likes that, he can tell, by the way her eyes slim and she leans closer to him. Byleth touches his hand. “I’ve missed you, too Dimitri.”

He knows his face is burning, and he’s certain it’s not the wine.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to come see you sooner. But I’ve heard all the good you’ve been able to accomplish,” she continues. “You hardly need me anymore.”

“That’s not true. I—”

_ Wish every night that you were by my side. _

“Merely learned from the best,” he finishes.

"As humble as always,” she answers, touching her cheek.

"Tell me about you, how you're faring,” Dimitri says, changing the subject. “The task of leading the church in these times must be a heavy burden on your shoulders.”

Byleth lets go of his hand and looks to the roses above them as if they'll answer for her. She fingers the small dragon idol that holds her hair up in a golden bite and pulls, sending green waves and fragments of leaves to the table. So beautiful, Dimitri thinks, and then tries not to think at all. 

Seteth is right about the wrong thing—_ she's _ a distraction to _ him_. He would let the capitol burn if he could see the light of her eyes on him.

“It’s more difficult than had I hoped, but no more than I expected. I've been away from Garreg Mach for weeks at a time, traveling with the bishops. The people I meet, their eyes… they’re living, but they have the eyes of the dead.”

Dimitri rubs his eyepatch, frowns and nods.

"The war is over in name, but not in spirit,” he says slowly. “I have seen the same.”

“The church will have to change, rise to meet the challenge. I have an idea about how to get there, but it's...” Byleth runs a finger around the lip of her goblet. “Did Seteth tell you?”

“He… told me you would come to see me.” Dimitri drinks deeply to hide his embarrassment. 

“Well. I’m not Rhea. I've read less scripture than most schoolchildren, and what I've read, I can't agree with or even understand. But faith, that, I do understand.”

She meets his gaze steadily. “I have faith in my own hands, my former students. I have faith in _ you_. And so, I wonder if I could share something with you."

“Of course,” says Dimitri. "Anything."

Byleth takes a deep breath.

“I have… I have never told you that I, too, used to hear a voice.”

“You?” Dimitri envisions her blood-soaked childhood, striding at Jeralt’s side, cold and lethal as a blade. How many lives ended with Byleth as the last thing their eyes saw? How many cold, lifeless hands might cling to her soul? He shudders to think that she suffers the same fate as him, in part _ because _ of him, his orders.

“It’s not the same as the voices you hear. Even before the day I tore through Solon’s darkness to reach you, the day that the goddess granted me her power, there… there has always been a voice within me. Guiding me." 

Byleth breaks his gaze for the first time, letting her fingers run the wooden rivers of the old table. She’s nervous, he realizes. He’s never seen this side of her, her voice choppy with uncertainty. He longs to soothe her fears, take her in his arms again, but there's a table and a moat of unspoken feelings between them that he can't even begin to cross, not now. 

"You do not have to fear such declarations around me," Dimitri says. "You're in the company of one who often treats with the dead."

Byleth pins him with a look. “Do you still hear voices?”

“No,” he says, rubbing at his shoulder. It’s more skeletal chorus than voices now, after all. 

“I see.” Her brow is knitted and she seems to want to pull more out of him, but she rolls forward.

“I thought the goddess' voice was gone forever, once her power became my own. But I have begun to dream, Dimitri. Strange, complicated dreams. Full of power and instruction.”

"A revelation?" the king asks.

"I don't know. It's frustrating how little I know, and Seteth has only questions, not answers. But, Dimitri... in my dreams, you are there."

His eye widens. "You dream of me?"

"Yes. And my intuition tells me that where my dreams lead, I must follow. Even if I have yet to understand why... you were by my side as we watched a dragon twist and fly over Fhirdiad,” she says. 

There are no dragons in Fhirdiad—wyverns, yes—but no dragons, though Dimitri doesn’t need to say that. She tilts her face into her fingers with the frustration of someone who already knows she’s lost, her eyes squeezing shut. He has never seen Byleth struggle to explain herself, either. 

“No matter. We will look for what you seek,” says Dimitri. Her eyes blow open in surprise as she considers him, letting the burbling of the fountain fill the silence.

“I do not like to ask for favors, especially when I don’t know my own terms," Byleth begins again, slowly. "And to ask you for help, when your role is so demanding…” 

"To assist the Archbishop... to help my... friend, my most cherished ally, is my vow as leader of the Holy Kingdom."

“I cannot say where this road ends,” she says. “But I know that I need you to walk it. Will you stay by my side, no matter what?”

She _ needs _him. Three words cuts lose all his fears. It's her trust in him that melts him, that ties him, that makes him belong to her whether she knows it or not.

Dimitri grasps her hands in his own.

“I would walk any path with you," he says. "I am yours, always.” 

There it is, that smile, full of gratitude. Is he imagining something more in the way her hands tighten on his? Her lips part, and she starts to say something when there’s a _crash_ behind them.

Both of them startle away from each and turn. Byleth’s handmaid Saella is panting in the open greenhouse door, a courier in tow.

“Pardon me, Your Majesty, Your Grace,” she puffs, not looking sorry at all. "Lord Carel has sent an urgent messenger for you, Your Grace. His young brother has fallen ill, and the last moon has already taken his healer."

The courier nods. She’s clutching a letter, her hands stained with ink not yet dry.

“Her Grace has yet to eat or rest,” Dimitri rumbles. “I would be happy to send my personal healers to Lord Carel.”

"He has requested the presence of Her Holiness. As you know, Lord Carel is a devout man. If it comes to pass that his brother will not live, he wishes the Archbishop to be at their side for the funereal rite." Saella’s voice is low, but her eyes are triumphant. 

Dimitri holds back a groan. Lord Carel, devout? More likely he’s just sharp-eared, and wants to leverage the Archbishop’s visit for favor, sick brother or no. He is about to say something slightly more diplomatic when Byleth stands.

“Your Majesty," Byleth says softly, and he recognizes the closed caution in her voice. "Don’t worry. It's my responsibility to go."

Reluctantly, Dimitri stands as well, and bows.

"Thank you for your hospitality," Byleth says. "I look forward to having it again in Fhirdiad.” 

She draws near, but before she leaves, she pauses near Dimitri.

“I will see you next moon,” she says, her voice barely a whisper, her hand on his shoulder. “Or perhaps sooner.”

\---

The king is dreaming.

Dimitri and Byleth are sitting knee-to-knee in the flames of the Great Hearth, deep in a bed of gold and orange leaves. He is crowned with the roaring griffin circlet of his ancestors; her crown is her ethereal hair, which crests and falls like a glowing sea wave. 

There is something intense about the quality of the dream. He can actually _ taste _ the sweet and smoky autumn air, and feel the fullness of the sun on his skin. Despite wearing armor, his limbs feel as light as flower stems. Byleth, partly in leaf shadow, looks delicate and pale as a petal. He feels that if the sunlight glanced her just right that he would see through her. 

Byleth smiles at him, though her eyes seem sad. She tucks a single white and red braid behind her ear.

“You lied,” dream Byleth says softly. “You’re still hurting.”

She points to the foot of a tree, where clawing from the ground is a cracked and bleeding hand.

Its fingers clutch a dagger so familiar that even his sleeping mind can assemble it perfectly, from carved handle to thirsting edge.

“Some days, it follows me no matter where I go.” He reflexively touches his eyepatch but it’s gone, and his fingers meet warped skin. Dimitri sighs and leans back against a tree. He bundles his long legs in his arms and looks at the hand that seeks his death. 

“It is a bit pitiful to know that I can ruin even a dream as lovely as this."

“Don't worry about it, Dimitri. _Go away," _Byleth commands in a voice that makes the air itself tremble, and the earth swallows up the hand and dagger. Dimitri shakes his head, a faint, brief smile finding his lips.

“You are always saving me, even in my imaginings.” He draws his legs closer. “But I must learn to mend my own wounds. It is no longer your duty to take care of me.”

He's surprised by the touch of her hand to his cheek, bringing his face to meet her green eyes. “You’re right. Taking care of you is not my duty. It’s what I want.”

Dimitri can't think of anything to say to this, and for once, the other voices in his head don't have any suggestions either.

"Does that surprise you?” Byleth says plainly. She lets go of his chin and runs a single blond lock through her fingers like a harpstring. 

"No,” he eases out. “You have always been the first to offer your hand. Even when it's not deserved."

"Deserved," she sighs. "You speak of what’s deserved, but I would sleep better at night knowing that you're not pained in both body and soul. Consider me selfish, and let me help you, Dimitri. Will you?"

What should he say to this vision of the woman he so loves? In the waking world, he must be a king, steeled and doubtless. But his beloved’s fingers are stroking his hair, and her eyes are radiant with something that so looks like love, and maybe, even if it’s only here, he can allow himself deliverance. Dimitri leans into his need, buries his face into her hand, his lips against her lifeline.

"If that is your offer, then I am yours,” he murmurs into her palm. 

"Show me the wound."

Dimitri leans back and reaches to unsnap the buckle that holds his breastplate to his shoulder. He twists and lowers the heavy slate of armor to his waist, unfastening the clasps that kept his tunic closed. 

Byleth presses a hand to the rift of scar tissue where Edelgard’s dagger pierced him. 

He shudders as his beloved slides her hand to his skin. Her touch is as warm and kind as he remembers. Blue eyes meet green. She seems to be waiting for a sign from him. Before he can overthink it, he closes his hand over hers and nods.

Dimitri feels her focus intensify. It's as if the air draws itself into a single point, her hand growing even warmer against his chest. Not quite like white magic, which fizzles against the skin and leaves the scent of honey. No, to Dimitri, Byleth’s fingers are moving without the rest of her, reaching _ inside _ him, past him. The memory of metal singeing his bone throbs through him, disappears, writhes into something feels _ good_. His heart pounds in his throat as the world leans on to its edge, colors shrugging into one another. 

Their breathing slows and becomes one. For a moment, they are the same being, gold and green, scarred and crowned, goddess and king.

When Dimitri opens his eye again, he's surprised to find that both of his eyes open. In the silver of his discarded armor he can see himself - one eye blue, the other green.

"I can’t do more than this for now. It should hold for a while, but..."

Byleth makes a small sound, slumping towards the leaves. Dimitri reflexively catches her, pulls her to him. Then he looks at his own hand with surprise. The numbness is gone. He catches a little smile on her face as he holds her close.

"Let’s rest for a while, Dimitri."

Dimitri startles awake in his bed. His hand flies to his face, then his shoulder. His eye is still gone, but so is the scar on his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is REVIVED! Praise Sothis. 
> 
> Next chapter, we see some old faces and introduce a new contender.


End file.
